


Conversant With Terrible Objects

by Gray_Days



Series: Sublimity [1]
Category: DCU, Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths
Genre: Character Study, Earth-3, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mirror Universe, Multi, Our Vulcans Are Different, Phone Sex, Power Kink, Superwoman and Owlman’s fucked-up gordian knot of power dynamics and consent issues, Voice Kink, Xeno, adult fiction of adult characters, alternate-universe gender dynamics, the inherent sensuality of world domination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 07:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19146730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Days/pseuds/Gray_Days
Summary: And who by his lady's command, who by his own hand,who in mortal chains, who in power,and who shall I say is calling?





	Conversant With Terrible Objects

**Author's Note:**

> Also rebloggable [on Tumblr](https://cineresis.tumblr.com/post/185502129016/conversant-with-terrible-objects).
> 
> The voice casting for the Crime Syndicate in Crisis on Two Earths was [very](https://youtube.com/watch?v=icshJiK_H_k&t=2m26s), [very](https://youtube.com/watch?v=G-rl0tfQO9E) good.
> 
> (Please do not bring up the [autonomous sensory meridian response](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Autonomous_sensory_meridian_response), because we are all on the same page here re: the arresting shivers-down-your-spine quality of Owlman’s voice but the term/acronym is a frustratingly intractable trigger that means I can’t read or engage with any comments that mention it.)
> 
> For some reason, I find the [Ojibwe double-vowel orthography](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ojibwe_writing_systems#Romanized_Ojibwe_systems) in common present-day use literally almost _impossible_ to read despite my existing familiarity with non-Latin alphabets and lack of relevant learning disabilities — my brain constantly stumbles at the long vowels, and I inevitably get lost mid-word. Therefore, for both my own sake and that of readers who do not necessarily have those linguistic advantages, I use a less-standard version of the same spelling that indicates long vowels with macrons (ˉ) rather than double vowels. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to find English-language resources which use transliteration styles that I find more readable.
> 
>  _Ininīkāzo_ is an Ojibwe term used for transmasculine people and is not derogatory — Christian imperialism never tried to stamp out indigenous trans and nonbinary genders in the mirror world, so trans people are both common and normalised in society at large — but it appears in this fic in the context of Superwoman’s virulent male-exclusionary feminism and the differing gender dynamics of that world, so there may be a risk of splash damage if transphobia is a trigger for you. Please be safe.
> 
> Finally, the Our Vulcans Are Different tag is used in both a literal and figurative sense. I geek out on mirror Star Trek and various other cultural differences in the fic endnotes.

The Crime Syndicate believed that Owlman loved Gotham City, when they credited him with the ability to love at all.

They were wrong. Not about his ability to love, though he did not love easily. But Owlman didn't love like most people seemed to. He didn't love places, or people, or possessions, or even the ideas that those with an inkling of the way his mind worked accused him of caring about more than any real thing. He loved _acts._ Potential and actual.

What he loved about Gotham was that he owned it, in so much more intimate a way than any other part of his territory or his myriad assets. He'd shaped it according to his vision, and continued to shape it every day with the reality-deforming weight of his myth and the hundreds of strategic decisions whose flawless execution was the purest embodiment of sociopolitical power made manifest. When he went out into the city, he knew every building, every street, every park and junkyard and alleyway like he knew his own body — not by sight or by detail, but by bone-deep _feel._ He could look down over any neighborhood within its borders and list, via gut instinct and accumulated experience alone, exactly what kind of people lived in which tenement, where each of the vital local businesses would be, where he'd find each dumpster and fire escape and dead end. Owlman could do anything he wanted, go anywhere he wanted, take whatever he wanted, _kill_ whoever he wanted, and the city would ultimately comply. And people thought the fact that he protected it so jealously meant he loved the _city._

Owlman didn't love Gotham. He loved what it _was:_ land and infrastructure and history and inhabitants bound together like some vast sprawling organism, like a coral reef built on the calcified remains of its ancestors, whose pulse beat in the traffic that flowed through its streets at every hour and whose breath burned his lungs with ever-present smog and, at the back of his throat, the tingling ozone taste of an oncoming storm — and whose extremities obeyed his every command as easily and intuitively as if they were tuned to his own nervous system.

That was why he'd created the Aerie. Wayne Manor was too far out from the city proper; Owlman's forebears had preferred to look upon their domain with a moneyed detachment, insulating themselves from the noise and the chaos and the intrusive bustle of the _hoi polloi_ by surrounding their estate with aristocratic distance like a moat. Far better, by their reckoning, to commit generations of socially acceptable white-collar crime well away from the plebeian muggings and thefts and delinquent gangs and back-alley rapes more suited to those without the privilege of clean hands. The misplaced sense of entitlement was honestly very quaint. 

His own well-earned sense of entitlement demanded pride of place over the fiefdom he'd conquered. Insisted on looking out over his city at any time of the day or night and feeling its heartbeat in the millions of lives that defined it with their dogged striving and petty concerns and innumerable sins small and large, and knowing that he held every one of those lives in the palm of his hand. _Potential acts._ Sometimes kinetic, when he needed or simply wanted to descend from his perch and remind the populace of what they had to fear. 

In the human mind, altitude had ingrained associations with power. Owlman suspected that this was at least partly atavistic — the legacy of primitive mammals who’d cowered from the swooping shadow of a predator, of primate ancestors who'd descended from the trees to stand tall and yearn for flight and the stars ever after. From the start, command over heights was a practical indication of power. The physical prowess and ferocity necessary to hold the best vantage point and stay out of the reach of predators. The resources and engineering to build upward. Strategic advantage in battle. The subjugation of physical laws to human ingenuity in the development of powered flight and space travel. In almost every language on Earth, _above_ was master of _below_ — in rank, in sophistication, in strength of will.

The noise of the city was attenuated a hundred stories up, and his workrooms were soundproofed regardless, but Owlman _knew_ the crowds and car horns and public psychodramas and sirens outside as well as he knew every other part of his city. And knowing he could instantly silence any one of those sounds motivated him.

The unheard clamor of humanity was interrupted by Superwoman's voice in his communicator. "So, what are you wearing right now?"

Owlman's typing paused for a fraction of a second. "I'm busy."

"Immediate life-or-death busy, or you can talk to me and you just don't want to busy?"

"I'm writing a program that pinpoints exploitable vulnerabilities in combat situations and highlights them in the user's heads-up display, which should improve reaction time and pattern recognition substantially.” That was an incredible oversimplification, but neither of them would enjoy Owlman attempting to convey the finer nuances of artificial neural nets in layman’s terms. “So, yes: life or death. Just not immediate."

"I thought you already did that without a computer program."

"This does it much faster."

"Right." Barely-polite disdain, verging on aggressive disinterest. Owlman could derail Superwoman from her intended objective by explaining the wider applications of this project in a way that appealed to her more platonic passions — perhaps even get her invested enough in it that she'd willingly leave him to his work — but he honestly wasn't inclined to share at such a preliminary stage. Furthermore, interrupting him with unsolicited flirting was Superwoman's way of reifying her claim on him. In person, this entailed anything from possessive touches to draping herself over him and doing her best to feel him up through full-body power armor. She was an extremely tactile person. Also, extremely controlling. Now that they were an item, it didn't really matter whether Superwoman was invading his space physically or remotely — rebuffing her would only incite her ire and ultimately end in her forcing the issue. But Owlman could hardly afford to let her distract him.

Then again, he _was_ very good at multitasking.

"Would you like to start again?" he asked.

"I asked you what you were wearing," Superwoman reminded him unnecessarily.

"My armor, mask, and cape. Is that a surprise?"

"It really isn't. What would I have to do to get you to take it off?"

"If you were here, it would be easy. No matter how much I wanted to continue working, if you were insistent enough I wouldn't be able to resist." Purposeful innuendo, playing up both Superwoman's attractiveness and how easily she could overpower him. "If you sat on the console, or on my lap, it would be impossible for me to do anything other than give you my full attention. From there, I'd have to cooperate. You could tell me to strip, and I wouldn't have any excuse not to. Or you could remove my armor yourself." Owlman hadn't shown her exactly how, but it wasn't as if it would make him much more vulnerable than having sex with her in the first place. Only his doctor and a few of his made men had access to the control signal that would disengage the clasps on his armor so it could be removed without brute force if he wasn't cognisant enough to do it himself. "Forcibly, if you wanted. Get me up against one of the windows and I wouldn't even have the leverage to struggle." That would appeal to her exhibitionist tendencies, but the penthouse windows were both polarised and bulletproof — for all practical purposes, as private as a concrete bunker. Just because he liked to be able to look out effortlessly in any direction didn't mean he had to tolerate anyone looking _in._

There was a moment where neither of them said anything. Then he asked, "What are you wearing?"

He could hear Superwoman smile. Something in the ambient timbre, or in the shape of her words, too subtle for conscious identification. "Just that little black silk negligee with the red lace accents, from the last time we met. You remember." He did. "And a sheer robe over top. You haven't seen this one yet. It's red, fastens at the neck, and closes the rest of the way with a sash. You'll like it. Oh…and black lace panties." Owlman's mouth twitched with inappropriate amusement. She'd actually put on panties for him. "Do you want me to take them off?"

It was very easy to visualise, even without having seen the robe. He'd seen enough thus far to make an educated guess. "No. Keep them on." The tone of her listening took on an intrigued note, tinged with wariness. Wondering if he was shrugging off her overtures after all, but expecting otherwise with the justified presumption of the most dangerous woman on the planet. "Are you wearing your choker?"

"No. But I am wearing my earrings." Flawless ruby cabochons, unfaceted to maximise the carat weight. Sheer brazen ostentation, when she regularly exposed herself to hails of bullets, energy blasts, explosions. Try to hurt her, and risk depriving the world of something precious. A ransom note in jewellery.

"Good. They complement you." Owlman typed in silence for a moment, letting her think that he was considering how to proceed. "Are you in bed?"

"Yes."

"Are you touching yourself?"

He could picture Superwoman's smile unfurling into the self-satisfied grin she got when all her cards suddenly fell into place. Sharp and anticipatory, like a knife unsheathed. "Do you want me to?"

Owlman’s lips twitched again. "I figured that was irrelevant."

Superwoman laughed, low and comfortable, the kind of sound that evoked a primal response normally reserved for the chuffing of a tiger watching gold-eyed from the undergrowth. "That wasn't what I asked."

His voice dropped to a half-vocalised whisper. "Yes."

"I was," Superwoman said. "I was running my hands over my body, teasing myself and pretending it was your hands on me. Now I'm unfastening the robe." A momentary pause as she shifted on the bed. (Or so Owlman assumed — the communicators filtered out ambient noise and most nonvocal, nonverbal sounds, so there was an inevitable degree of inference in this kind of conversation.) "I'm posed very artistically right now. Lying sprawled en déshabillé against the pillows. I assume that's something you like."

"I appreciate it."

"Has anyone told you you're incredibly pretentious?" she asked affectionately.

"Not more than once."

Genuine laughter this time. No — everything Superwoman did was genuine, a true expression of some facet of herself that she was willing to show the world, even if its purpose was manipulative. Rather: uncontrived, spontaneous, without premeditation. Owlman wondered whether she recognised the humor as intentional. Most people were unwilling to believe that he was capable of it. "Poseur," she stated authoritatively. She shifted again, then made a soft sound, half-voiced, fluttering against vocal cords too delicately to be called a moan. "I'm touching myself through my panties right now, rubbing my clit and teasing my pussy. I'm so wet I can feel it through the fabric." Owlman made no comment, so the next sound was from Superwoman again, still quiet but longer and more in earnest, dissolving into pleased laughter at the end. "Does that turn you on?"

Owlman's interest in sex tended mainly toward the conceptual and the selfish, a combination of the power he could exert over someone else to bring them to orgasm while furthering his own pleasure. He seldom responded physically without direct physical stimulation, unless it had been long enough that his body was already primed for arousal. He assumed Superwoman had noticed that fact; it was obvious enough. Perhaps she thought he needed to grow comfortable enough for his body to respond to a wider range of stimuli, or she was simply playing out her own fantasy. Rather than disabuse her of the notion, he politely lied, "Getting there."

"I'm so hot right now, baby." There was a husky note to her voice, an unevenness to her breathing as she worked herself up for his shared benefit. "I could come just from this."

"I'd like to hear that," Owlman said.

It was clear that the statement turned Superwoman on. The sounds of her arousal became more drawn-out, more self-absorbed, and Owlman used the opportunity to get some more work done, listening with just enough attention as she narrated her masturbation for him that he could respond appropriately. It was a curiously satisfying experience — hearing her perform for him in response to what he said. He'd overheard his share of phone sex in the course of a career filled with wiretaps and eavesdropping, but had never really had a reason to engage in it himself. As Superwoman bit her lip and lost herself in a muffled cry of ecstasy, Owlman acknowledged the possibility that he'd unfairly neglected the practice, if only for its convenience relative to the benefit gained.

He heard Superwoman catch her breath, then start up again a few seconds later. No refractory period. Some women didn't have them; Owlman was curious whether she was part of that category naturally or whether it was a consequence of her superhuman fortitude, if there was even a way to differentiate. There probably wasn't any polite way to ask.

“What would you do if you were here?” said Superwoman. Hard to tell what she was doing based on tone of voice alone — rich and throbbing in her lower range, lifting to breathy aspirants at the end as her control slipped just a little farther out of her grasp. Probably taking advantage of the increased sensitivity from that first quick orgasm to slowly delve deeper and harder, taking her time to stimulate herself in earnest. Owlman was by no means unpracticed at deducing context over the communicators, but it was seldom quite this prurient.

“What would you let me do?” he asked.

“Surprise me.”

Interesting. Superwoman liked him to show off his prowess, especially when he exceeded her expectations, but had never yet allowed him to take control of one of their encounters. (Not that Owlman minded; all else being equal, he’d take whatever option kept her happiest.) If this shift in dynamic extended beyond this single call…

A consideration for later. “I’d undress and climb into bed with you, once you invited me. Straddle you with my knees on either side of your body and kiss you like I’d been thinking about it since we parted.” Superwoman wanted Owlman to want her — understandable, if perhaps overly optimistic — but barring the realisation of that fantasy, it was flattery enough that he’d make an effort to pretend. “I’d rest one hand on the back of your neck and stroke the other slowly down your body, taking my time, feeling you through your clothes, cupping your breast in my palm and running my thumb over your nipple just enough to make you start squirming.” Superwoman made a sharp, cut-off sound, almost akin to a sob. Owlman imagined her touching herself to his words, one hand on her breast, hips jerking as she fucked herself with the other. He spoke over her. “Then I’d move on. I’d slide my hand down along your ribs and your waist and I’d hold onto your hip as we ground against each other. I imagine you’d react more aggressively than I — ” Superwoman made a noise of agreement — “so I’d follow your lead. You’d be clutching at my shoulders and back, nails digging into my skin, holding me in place so you could mouth at my neck and jaw.” As long as he kept up the right tone, quiet and steady and relentless, Owlman barely had to think about what he was saying. All sex was ultimately formulaic, in any case — just an expression of the insurmountable need for human contact, for sensation, to affect someone and to know your effect on them. Even with someone as deviant as Superwoman. “I’d keep touching you, running my hand along your thigh and back up under the hem of your negligee, rucking it up to your waist so I could stroke along the line of your hipbone and letting my thumb dip under the waistband of your panties for just a moment before I remembered I didn’t have permission to touch you there yet.”

A grin flickered across Owlman’s face at Superwoman’s groan of frustration. “You’d soon order me to get on with it,” he continued, “so I’d start touching you through your panties, fingering and rubbing you until you were soaking wet and panting. You’d be thrusting your hips up against my hand, searching for just the right amount of pressure, but it wouldn’t be enough. I’d keep my touches light — I’d stroke your lips and your clit, and every so often I’d press in harder and then back off just before it got good enough.” Superwoman’s whispered _‘fuck’_ was gratifying indeed, but Owlman didn’t pause to appreciate it. “You’d be worked up and shivering, swearing at me, digging your nails into my back hard enough to bruise, telling me to fuck you.”

The sounds coming from Superwoman’s throat were higher-pitched now, plaintive and needy, a continuous background contrapunto to his speech. Had she backed off in accordance with the fantasy he was providing, disregarding her instinctive desires in order to frustrate herself? It was a tantalising thought. “Of course I’d oblige,” he said. “I’d push your panties to the side and slip my fingers into you, thrusting steadily and pressing my thumb hard into your clit. I’d go deep and shallow and then deeper again, as far as I could push into you, never quite becoming predictable. Never doing exactly the same thing twice. I’d twist my fingers inside your pussy, scissor them to stretch you out…or I’d curl them forward to drag my fingertips over your G-spot.”

“Fuck,” breathed Superwoman, “fuck, fuck, _fuck— ”_

“By the time I inserted a third finger, the feeling of me inside of you would be all you could think about.” That would hardly be a stretch for her, given Owlman’s immediate predecessor, but he found that adding any additional fingers provided diminishing returns in terms of dexterity. If Superwoman wanted volume, she had plenty of toys to fall back on. He seldom needed them, though they obviously didn’t hurt. “You’d be clenching around me, goading me on, telling me to fuck you harder, deeper, telling me to make you come. I’d have one leg between yours, my cock pushing against your thigh with every movement. Your leg would be wrapped around mine and with my free hand I’d angle your hips so that you were crying out with every thrust — all but abandoning speech, succumbing to incoherence as sensation overtook you completely.” He was half bullshitting, half narrating the sounds of Superwoman’s passion in his ear. “When you were on the verge of coming — ”

Owlman’s calculated gamble paid off as the volume and pace of Superwoman’s cries reached a new level. He raised his voice just enough that she couldn’t help but hear him. “I’d bring you all the way up to the brink and then I’d keep you there, drawing it out, my fingers pressing into you, pressing hard against your G-spot as I rocked my hand against you and you shuddered underneath me — and with every pulse of pleasure, every rising wave of orgasm, you’d clench around me so tight I could feel my heartbeat in my fingers, and every time you started to come down I’d shift position and do something new, twisting my fingers into a new position and fucking you like that until your legs were wrapped around me tight enough to bruise, and you had to take your hands off me and grab the headboard to keep from breaking my bones, and you couldn’t even scream my _name_ anymore.”

The sound of Superwoman’s voice was frantic as she came, raw and ragged, tearing free of her throat so loudly that the communicators automatically dampened the transmission volume. Gradually her cries wound down to high-pitched gasps and she collapsed back against the pillows, limp and spent.

A moment later, she giggled — an oddly girlish sound in a woman of her age and station. Even giddy with bloodlust, she seldom laughed quite like that. “Do you fantasise about me like that often?”

No. “Of course,” said Owlman. “I’ve been thinking about you since I first saw you. Who wouldn’t?” Indeed, Superwoman made herself impossible to ignore on the international stage, but her histrionic grandstanding was hardly the sum of it — there was something captivating about any one person who had _that_ much power, the same emotion as that which swelled in the chest and arrested the lungs while watching footage of a nuclear bomb test, staring into the heart of a miniature sun and seeing the end of all life on Earth in the afterimages. Maria Bassan was a weapon of mass destruction in the indestructible body of a supermodel. Sublime, in the classical sense.

“You should have said something earlier.”

“And get in between you and Ultraman?” Owlman huffed a breath out through his nose, not quite a snort. “I’ve had better ideas.”

“I can think of one way that might go…”

“Him dominating me, me dominating him, or you dominating us both?”

“I was thinking you could both fight to see who could please me better.” A sound like Superwoman stretching luxuriously, then, “Him between my legs, putting his mouth to good use for a change…you behind me, your dick in my ass, stroking my waist or my tits and kissing your way down my neck. And then whichever one of you won would get to fuck me while the loser watched and jerked off.”

The implication was obvious. Owlman had already won, or else Superwoman would still be with Ultraman and Owlman would be sating his occasional appetites elsewhere. She had almost hit upon a scenario Owlman might find attractive — if he’d ever had more than an academic interest in the Kryptonian, if he were willing to tolerate additional participants, if humiliating Ultraman that directly didn’t risk him losing his temper and terminating Owlman’s existence against his better judgement. If Owlman harbored any fantasies about Ultraman that the Kryptonian would be capable of walking away from. “I have a better idea.”

“Mm?”

“Ultraman goes down on you, and I instruct him until he’s good enough to compete with me.”

A peal of laughter in his ear. How long had it been since someone had felt comfortable laughing _with_ him, figuratively speaking, rather than being either too unnerved to dare or too insane to care? A few of the other family heads, now and then, but their amusement was seldom for the same reason as Owlman’s own. If shared spite and tribal bonding were all it took to make Superwoman decide his honest thought processes were endearing, this relationship might be less of a chore than he’d expected.

“Why, darling, I never knew you were into that sort of thing.” Teasing. Owlman wasn’t so inscrutable that his appreciation of skilled work would go unnoticed; Superwoman would extrapolate from that, even if she’d lacked confirmation. 

“You don’t know me very well.”

“Clearly. Good thing we’re going to fix that, right? Are you hard yet?”

Owlman’s typing didn’t slow as he considered his answer; he was too used to maintaining an appearance of total control to let it falter for something like this, even with no one to see, and in any case the cost-benefit calculation was so automatic that it hardly distracted him. He’d indulged Superwoman thus far, but to cede the conversation to her control so easily might encourage her to think his time belonged to her, not to mention the possibility of creating false expectations regarding his sexual responsiveness. That would unquestionably complicate matters. But at this point, two orgasms and an exchange of sexual fantasies in, simply telling the truth and extricating himself from the call would likely precipitate another ambush later, potentially at a less convenient time. Either way, Superwoman would affirm her dominance over him — the real question was whether it would be through surrender or through force.

“Owlman?”

He’d hesitated too long. Owlman took a slow, deep breath, purposefully obvious, then said, “Yes.” Let her think that it was sexual conservatism that held him back, rather than ambivalence. She’d take pleasure in tempering her customary aggressiveness to draw him out of his shell, coaxing him into enjoying those desires he refused to acknowledge.

A pause as Superwoman shifted position. Then she spoke, low and patient and irresistible, with the unquestioned imperiousness of a queen: “Are you touching yourself?”

“I’m still wearing my armor,” Owlman reminded her.

“That must be uncomfortable.”

“Somewhat.” He’d been unlucky enough to find himself in such circumstances once or twice. Unavoidable errors, since rectified.

“Owlman?” Superwoman asked.

“Yes?”

“I want you to go to your room, and take your armor off.”

“I really am busy,” Owlman said, inserting a tinge of regret into his tone.

“What if I made it worth your while?”

Owlman’s typing paused fractionally. “Go on.”

“When I did this with Ultraman, he’d make it maybe ten, fifteen minutes before blowing his load and hanging up. I think you can give me a _much_ better time. Don’t you?”

That had always struck him as odd. Weaponised masculinity aside, Owlman would never have thought Superwoman would tolerate Ultraman for longer than a month if he couldn’t be taught to perform to her satisfaction. A disparity between human and Kryptonian biology? Or perhaps he’d attempted a clumsier version of the same kind of power play Owlman had considered, trying to prove to Superwoman that he had far more important things to do with his time than dedicate it wholly to her pleasure?

“Give me a few minutes,” Owlman said, and muted the connection.

Preference for an excellent vantage point notwithstanding, Owlman’s living quarters were not nearly so exposed. It took a minute and a half via high-speed elevator to travel from the penthouse level to the sub-basement complex — round that up to the minute to account for the time to walk there, unhurried. Another minute to pass through his security measures and traverse the corridor to his bedroom. Since he’d transitioned from his original body armor to a powered exosuit, Owlman had released Alfred and Talon from their arming duties in favour of the greater precision of machine assistance, so it would be another forty-five seconds to disassemble and remove his armor — no. By hand, not rushing, call it four minutes. Then fifteen seconds to strip out of his bodysuit and down to his underwear, and take the rest of the minute to collect the relevant appurtenances of masturbation and situate himself comfortably.

Owlman added another two minutes on general principle, then set a countdown with a fifteen-second warning in the corner of his HUD and went back to his work.

When the countdown display blinked white just under ten minutes later, he lifted his hands from the keyboard, cracked his knuckles and neck, and took a deep breath before unmuting the connection. “All right.”

“Seriously?” asked Superwoman.

“I presumed you could keep yourself occupied while I shut everything down and did as you asked. Was I wrong?”

Superwoman let out a meaningful sigh. “I’ll let it go this time, since we haven’t done this before. Next time, though, you’re staying on the line.”

“I can’t promise I’ll stay on the line the whole time, but I’ll endeavor to make sure you don’t feel ignored. How would you like me to do this?”

A hint of a purr in Superwoman’s voice as she said, “How do you usually do it?”

“Efficiently. And in the shower.” Less fuss that way, less mess — Owlman could simply treat it as part of his cleaning routine, thoughtless and quickly forgotten. “I thought you’d want to take the lead this time.”

“Hmm. What do you usually think about while you’re jerking off?”

“Nothing in particular. Past lovers, sometimes. Upcoming plans. You, as I mentioned, though I generally try to keep my thoughts realistic.”

“Upcoming plans?” Superwoman asked drily.

Owlman smirked. “I’d think that you of all people would be able to appreciate the inherent sensuality of world domination.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she replied, stifling a laugh. “I’m not disagreeing. You’re just…very _you._ It’s unreal.”

“Thank you.”

Superwoman settled into a more comfortable position with a slight sound that indicated her fingers were already on her crotch. Quite likely they’d never left. “Are you undressed yet, or were you saving that part of the process for me?”

“Undressed. I’ll tell you about it next time, if you like.”

“Better. What are you doing right now?”

“I’m in my underwear, sitting up against the headboard. My hands are folded together on my stomach, and my legs are slightly apart, one of them bent at the knee.”

“Good. Take off your underwear for me.”

Owlman typed silently for a few seconds, breathing in time with the action beats running through his head — waistband, pull down over his knees, off past his feet, toss next to his discarded bodysuit, sit back again. “Done.”

“I want you to lube yourself up. How hard are you?”

“Adequately. I’ll attend to that shortly, I assure you.”

“Good boy.” Owlman had been wondering when Superwoman would pull out her favourite cliché. He might have to talk to her about that; submission was one thing, but being condescended to like a dog was distracting at best, and treading the line into degradation at worst. “Tell me what you meant by ‘realistic’.”

“You with other people. Ultraman, or one of your pets — taming them, breaking their wills until they served you eagerly.” It was ultimately fortuitous that Superwoman had called him on faking his responses the first time they’d fucked, since that meant he didn’t have to put in more effort than it took to keep his breathing in its deep meditative rhythm, his voice scrupulously even but for the slightest breathy edge inaudible to anyone not looking for it. “Or I’d imagine you ambushing me, trapping me up against the wall in the Panopticon to make Ultraman jealous and then overpowering me when I didn’t stop you.”

The sounds of Superwoman’s pleasure gave way to a mewl of delight, high-pitched and breathless. “How does it feel to be living the dream?”

“Strange,” Owlman replied honestly. “But vindicating. I’m still coming to terms with it.”

“Then I guess—” a stuttering hiss of breath — “we’ll just have to get you used to this.” Neither of them said anything for a little while, before Superwoman continued, “What did you imagine me doing to you?”

“You’d wait until I was alone — perhaps when I was working logistics or upgrading the base, or when the other family heads had already gone ahead to the transporters. You’d shove me up against the wall and say something insinuating, imply that I wouldn’t let this slip to the others. I wouldn’t say anything, just keep my eyes locked with yours, waiting to see what you did. Daring you to follow through on your threat. Then you’d kiss me.” It wasn’t a complete fabrication: given Superwoman’s iconoclastic attitude toward established power structures and proclivity for sexual aggression, Owlman had of course accounted for the possibility. And being trapped in her grasp, without further recourse even if he managed to unbalance her enough to escape temporarily, had been interestingly unsettling. “After that it tended to break the suspension of disbelief.”

“Tell me,” Superwoman commanded.

“The sort of thing you’d expect. Blowjobs, handjobs. Claiming me. It was awkward trying to justify a scene change, and the possibility that you’d ask me into a real relationship seemed too unlikely, so I’d move on to something else.”

Superwoman let out a heartfelt moan, almost pained, held too long at the apex of its utterance until it ended on a tiny gasp. “Good,” she breathed, “that’s good. I’d do that to you, if you want me to.”

“In private, on our home turf, I’d be okay with that. My other conditions still stand.”

A plaintive sound of disappointment, exaggerated to the point of childishness. “Prude.”

“I knelt for you,” Owlman pointed out. “I’d keep my expectations realistic.”

“Yes,” Superwoman replied, overly sly, “but you liked it.”

“I do appreciate your attentiveness to my pleasure.”

“Mm…speaking of. How are you doing?”

It had been a little under eight minutes since he’d ostensibly gotten started. Normally he would already have finished himself off by this point, or would be soon if his body were being especially intent on frustrating him. When he bothered to edge for his partner’s sake, Owlman could generally last as long as he cared to, at times spending upwards of several hours trembling on the verge of orgasm — but he certainly didn’t intend to participate in this farce for much longer than it took to put Ultraman to shame. Half an hour, at most. It was harder to concentrate on coding when he had to maintain the right mindset to keep his facade from slipping than when he’d merely needed to make sure the bulk of Superwoman’s attention stayed on herself. “Quite well. What level of detail are you looking for?”

Owlman was fairly sure the pause before Superwoman’s response this time was to recalibrate her expectations once again to the kind of person he was. “Tell me what you’re doing right now, how it feels.”

“My left hand is on my dick, stroking it slowly and steadily, twisting a bit with each movement and running my thumb or forefinger over the head now and then.” Superwoman was strangely fascinated by Owlman’s penis. It wasn’t exactly something he was unused to, but he would have thought that with the generous sample size at her disposal, she would long ago have gotten over the novelty of circumcision. “My right hand is cupping my testicles, with the last finger pressed against my perineum. It’s pleasant, obviously. An almost ticklish, energetic sensation, somehow full, extending faintly down along my inner thighs and up into my stomach, and I can feel my dick respond to it by becoming ever more stimulated and sensitive — on occasion almost excessively so, so I have to back off for a little while before I can continue as I had been.” He let his breath catch on the inhale before settling back into his steady rhythm. “Is that sufficient?”

As he spoke another overextended moan overlaid his words, louder and more desperate this time, followed by a decrescendo of gasped vocalisations and what sounded suspiciously like a brief hiccup of laughter at the very end. (Near-orgasms, most likely, or small ones not quite major enough to really disrupt proceedings.) _“Sufficient,”_ said Superwoman. “Yes, Owlman. That was quite sufficient, thank you.”

“Why don’t you tell me how you’re doing?” he suggested.

“Quite well,” she replied in mocking echo. “I’ve got a Midas on each hand — the left on pulse mode, and I’m fucking myself with it, rubbing my G-spot until it’s like I’m constantly on the edge of coming, and I keep going _just_ over the edge and back, again and again.” Now that she was speaking at greater length, Owlman could hear that huskiness in her voice, strained and relieved by turns, interrupted by tiny irregular breaths. “The right’s set to pressure-sensitive mode — I’m alternating between rubbing against my clit, hard and soft and hard over and over again, or brushing it over my body and pressing it against my nipples through my nightgown.”

“Ah. So you did find a way to occupy yourself.” The Midas was a development from Wayne Enterprises’ lifestyle division, a thin silicone half-glove with powerful vibrator motors in the fingertips. The proprietary pressure-sensitive vibration mode increased in intensity with added pressure or decreased to a faint buzz with a lighter touch — a major selling point, by all accounts. Superwoman would no doubt favour the burgundy option; Owlman couldn’t help but picture her with bloody hands, fucking herself on the aftermath of carnage.

He made a mental note to propose a team-up next time they had to deal with anti-Syndicate malcontents.

“Smugness isn’t attractive, darling,” Superwoman warned. The threat was somewhat attenuated by the breathless tone in which it was delivered.

A smirk flickered at the corner of Owlman’s mouth. “Then I suppose asking me out was a mistake.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re making it hard for me to stay turned on. _With_ the Midases.” Superwoman let out an undignified sound that Owlman suspected meant she’d just applied the right-hand fingertips to her clitoris at full intensity. “Tell me what else you’d like me to do to you.”

Owlman spared a moment to run through the possibilities he hadn’t already indicated his receptivity to. “Sparring.”

“Sparring?” Superwoman repeated, eyebrow audibly raised.

“You’re more powerful than I could hope to overcome, faster than any normal human being, and invulnerable to harm. When you fight, it’s like watching poetry in motion. I could go all-out against you in a way I can’t safely do with anyone else, hone my skills against an opponent who has me hopelessly outmatched — and then when you were finished toying with me, you could force me into submission and do whatever you wanted with me.” It wasn’t something he’d have proposed before he learned just _how_ careful she could be. Superwoman’s precision had never been in question, not since he’d first seen footage of her in action, but it wasn’t until they’d become lovers that Owlman learned how well she could restrain herself even at the most frenzied heights of animal passion. If she ever did more than bruise him, it wouldn’t be by accident.

“Oh,” breathed Superwoman, “oh yes, _gods,_ do you have any _idea_ what I’d do to you — I’d get you in a wristlock and force you to your knees, and then I’d take off that damn mask and make you eat me out like that, and put more pressure on your wrist whenever I thought you weren’t working hard enough to satisfy me — I’d pin you down so you couldn’t move, and peel you out of your armor like a lobster and tear your bodysuit off you with my _teeth—”_ She cried out as she came, hard enough that she couldn’t speak for a few seconds afterward. A frantic breath later, she continued, “Maybe I’d make you — make you fight me the whole time, so I’d have to keep you under control to keep you from getting away, and hurt you if you seemed to be getting t-too uppity — would you like that?”

Owlman contemplated her hands on his wrists, the spreading pain of a joint lock or the sharp, urgent pain of her inescapable vice-grip, so precise that the only real harm that could come of it would be if he resisted, and felt a prickle of adrenaline along his spine. “I might.”

_“Might?”_

“I’m not going to offer unconditional assurance of enjoyment in something I haven’t done yet.” Playing victim, primarily. Owlman was obviously aware of how pain could heighten sensation and accentuate — or overwhelm — sensual pleasure, although his experience with the combination had always been incidental: the product of existing injury, never deliberate masochism. Expert in the art of pain though he knew her to be, Superwoman had so far only utilised the threat thereof in her control of him — a merciless grip on his shoulder forcing him down, fingers pressing gently against his jawline to keep him from turning his head, teeth stopping just short of breaking skin. She seemed to be testing the waters with him currently, seeing how far she could push him before she encountered a limit to Owlman’s willingness. “But if you’d like to try it together, I’m game.”

Superwoman let out a small laugh, giddy and punch-drunk. “You’re so weird.”

“So I’m told.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “Weird can be interesting. And I do like collecting rarities. But most people would drop the Vulcan act in the middle of phone sex with their girlfriend.”

 _Girlfriend._ They had been on three dates so far, including the one where she’d first propositioned him, and had already slept together; Owlman supposed that by popular standards, Superwoman was right, though the schoolyard colloquialism still fit oddly. “Would you expect a Vulcan to?”

“Are — are you trying to _argue Star Trek_ with me while we’re jerking off?”

“I’m making a point. You wouldn’t expect a Vulcan to quit acting like a Vulcan simply because they’d chosen to engage in one of the more primitive biological functions available to them, because emotionless intellectualism defines both their worldview as well as the philosophical context that shaped it. Likewise, I don’t stop accounting for possible contingencies just because I have my dick in my hand and your voice — which is especially lovely when arrested in the throes of passion, by the way — in my ear.”

“Okay,” Superwoman said after a moment, “strangely romantic, but I’m still docking points for the Star Trek analogy.”

“You brought it up.” Fifteen minutes. Owlman would let it go on for another seven to ten, then fake orgasm and wrap this up. “Shall we get back to the topic at hand?”

“You mean me doing terrible, debauched things to you until you’ve been fucked so thoroughly you can’t even think?”

While he would have liked to think himself stronger than that, Owlman knew that against superhuman indefatigability even the strongest of wills would eventually fall prey to exhaustion and overstimulation. Best to cut that notion off at the root before Superwoman could entertain it as anything more than a joke. “That’s your fantasy, not mine.”

“If you say so,” she replied in a way that gave Owlman the urge to make doubly sure his insurance on her was watertight. “Why don’t we talk more about your fantasies, then? What kinds of things did you imagine me doing with Ultraman?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me what really happened.”

“Deal,” Superwoman agreed promptly. “You first.”

“I imagine you propositioned him much the same way you did me — inviting him to one of your country houses, well out of the public eye; a lavish dinner, perhaps overlooking the gardens or the Vlatavan countryside…”

“Is that an informed guess, or did you actually think about this?”

“It was basic logic. There wasn’t any chatter in the media or the rumour mill between you hanging back with him after the previous Syndicate meeting and the two of you showing up on each other’s arms, and you, my dear, have a notorious love of showing off.”

 _“Mm…_ all that eavesdropping’s going to get you in trouble someday.”

“If it makes you feel better, I didn’t hear what you said to him.” Not for lack of trying, but their communicators hadn’t been transmitting at the time, and without preset adjustments even the Panopticon’s considerable surveillance technology couldn’t pick up a whisper meant exclusively for a Kryptonian’s ear. Owlman had needed to go back through the raw recording data from Superwoman’s communicator just to reconstruct a best-guess approximation of her words.

“It does, a little. Go on.”

“Given Ultraman’s romantic conservatism, I’d be surprised if you tried to sleep with him on the first date. Still, I couldn’t help but imagine you coming on to him — him trying to deflect your advances, hindered by his own obvious attraction to you — you ignoring his attempts to derail and forcing him to act like the situation was under his control, that he’d intended this the whole time and was only giving you an out to be polite. And then you’d press your suit further, dismantling his act of unassailable masculine power piece by piece until he was putty in your hands, inarticulate with helpless lust and begging you for more.” Owlman heard Superwoman’s clenched-jaw moan as she came again. “And perhaps after that he’d convince himself of his dominance, that you’d done it all for his pleasure, but then you’d give him a certain look or touch him in a certain way and he’d find himself fighting the desire to submit to you again. Or he’d convince himself of it all the way up until you were back in the bedroom, and then when he tried to assert his power over you, you’d put him in his place and teach him to service you instead. All I know is that he doesn’t engage in normal human reproductive processes, so obviously I’d imagine him using his mouth and hands while you instructed him in the finer points of cunnilingus and human erogenous zones. I don’t know what he got out of it.”

“His mouth,” gasped Superwoman.

Owlman turned this over in his head, attempting to figure out what it signified. “Go on.”

“That’s how he told me Kryptonians had sex.” Superwoman took a moment to catch her breath. “With their mouths. They’ve got these glands in their necks, just under the ears, and when they get turned on enough they secrete genetic material into their saliva and swap it with their other half.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“He totally freaked out when I tried to kiss him. And when I touched him there, that spot just under his ears, he sort of froze up before melting in my hands like butter.” Superwoman let out a sharp little noise, swore softly, then finished, “I’m sure.”

Owlman’s thoughts flashed back to a dozen distinct instances of Superwoman kissing Ultraman at the end of a meeting before heading for a transporter, pressing her hands up behind his jaw as they made out in a semi-secluded alcove, brushing her fingers along his neck in the process of sliding a hand over his shoulder, staring at him with predatory gaze while running the tip of her tongue over her lips or biting her lower lip with just enough pressure to be blatantly suggestive. Unnecessarily, he said, “Then all the times you and he…”

Superwoman laughed, long and breathless. _“Yes.”_

A knife-edged grin spread across Owlman’s face. “Oh, you are a _very_ bad person.”

“And you _love_ it,” Superwoman said with vicious glee.

“It is one of the qualities that drew me to you, yes.”

“Such flattery. Where’d you hear that he can’t get it up?”

“When he and Flamebird are fighting, one hardly needs surveillance equipment to hear them from Gotham.” Superwoman’s account recontextualised a great deal of what Owlman had interpreted as unnecessary euphemism. “Even if that weren’t the case, there’s no reason his species would share reproductive biology with humans, regardless of superficial resemblances.”

“Oh, yes. His left-hand woman.” Superwoman imbued the phrase with more genteel disdain than Owlman would have thought her capable of under the circumstances. “She was a _much_ better lay than Ultraman.”

Owlman found himself grinning again. “You didn’t,” he prompted, knowing better.

“She was freezing him out, and he was pissing me off. Why wouldn’t I? Once she let herself admit she was attracted to me, we had a wonderful time.” A small, trembling cry escaped her lips. The sheets Superwoman was lying on had to be soaked through by now, her hands and inner thighs slick with fluids, hair and negligee disheveled and damp with the faint sheen of sweat that was the closest thing she ever showed to an unattractive human bodily function. “You know, I think he might be a hermaphrodite?”

“How so?” 

“Whenever I asked him about Kryptonian females, he’d always find a way to change the subject. I figure either they don’t have any, or he’s ininīkāzo and doesn’t want anyone to find out.”

On reflection, yes, Ultraman might well be obtuse enough to think his sex lessened what claim he had to human masculinity, even despite the astronomical unlikelihood that Kryptonian models of such would map coherently to any of the human gender roles available to him. It would certainly explain a lot. “Perhaps Kryptonian society was sexually stratified,” Owlman said. “What a shame he’ll never get closure.”

Superwoman cackled. “Can you imagine him as a woman, though? _Way_ less fun.” Owlman suspected this was because she was more inclined to respect women, but said nothing. “Do you want to know what we really did together?”

“Do tell.”

“Well, you were remarkably accurate. And yes, it took until the third date to get him into bed, since I had to smooth over the whole kissing issue and then coax him into exploring what we both liked. But I did let him assert his power over me sometimes, as you put it. When he earned it.”

“And how did he earn it?”

“By subduing me.”

Owlman’s eyebrows rose. That had _not_ been part of his character assessment for Superwoman. While she occasionally undertook a relationship on relatively equal terms — her marriage with Queen Irena of Kasnia came to mind — he could not recall a single instance when she’d ever willingly allowed herself to be dominated, though _many_ when she’d inflicted violent retribution against anyone who tried. And Owlman knew for a fact that Ultraman had never dared go so far as to rape her, so this wasn’t a matter of Superwoman editing events for the sake of her ego. Perhaps her insatiable lust for power took a much more literal form when that power involved unsurpassed physical strength.

In terms of sheer force output, Ultraman outclassed Superwoman significantly, though not enough to give him a definitive edge over her in direct combat. Moreover, his vulnerability to magic effectively eliminated any defensive advantages he might have. All else being equal, a contest between them could go either way. They must have agreed on _some_ limits, or else the property damage would have been visible from space.

“I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing,” Owlman said at last.

Superwoman laughed again, inordinately pleased to have caught him by surprise for once. “I’d think that you of all people could appreciate the feeling of being overpowered by someone who’s actually capable of it.”

“I’m not arguing. I’m just surprised you let him.”

“What can I say? He’s just so beautiful and muscular. And _very_ forceful.” She sighed. “I blame myself for thinking I could keep his ego in check. It was just so hard to resist the feeling of those hands on me.”

Twenty-five minutes. It was almost a shame that he was actually interested in this part of the conversation; trash-talking Ultraman with someone who had as much reason as Owlman to be circumspect was a rare pleasure, and on top of that, he was getting the kind of intelligence out of it that he would literally have killed to acquire. At some point over the last couple minutes his typing pace had slowed to a mere trickle. Quite possibly it would have been a more productive use of his time simply to do as Superwoman had asked and then return to this project without distraction, but it wasn’t as if he could change his mind now. Best to milk this conversation for all the information it was worth, then conclude it. “I admit I’m curious about the logistical aspects.”

“You mean what we did and how much furniture we broke?”

“If you want to put it that way, yes.”

“The rule was that as soon as one of us exerted force on the other, anything else was fair game…but we couldn’t break anything. Not even something fragile like a ceramic vase. If we did, we had to stop and submit to a penalty then and there. It was like a game, seeing how much force we could use without using _too_ much, trying to pin each other long enough to start touching each other in rather more interesting ways. At which point whoever was losing usually stopped wanting to fight back.” Superwoman’s voice had become sentimental, or perhaps regretful. “I usually had the early-game advantage, but once Ultraman got riled up enough he stopped trying to be polite.”

That — along with Ultraman’s acceptance of his epithet rather than insisting on a two-spirit or female identity, despite his obvious familiarity with human cultural dynamics — was one of the things that had long made Owlman skeptical of Ultraman’s “alien survivor” claim. His powers surpassed the typical metahuman range of variation, it was true; but his avoidance of human taboos was far too deeply ingrained and context-independent to be anything but the result of a Terran upbringing, as was his lack of any exogenous taboos other than his now-understandable discomfort with kissing. A visitor from an alien culture would be emotionally unaffected by contact with a person’s breasts or between their legs, though a polite alien would make the effort to avoid such contact nonetheless. But Ultraman shied away from such contact so instinctively that even in pitched battle he’d only ever been seen to break the taboo when he had no other option. It had taken Ultraman’s gifts of inhumanly advanced technology to Metropolis and his chosen favourites to make Owlman accept his story on a provisional basis, and a drop of blood before he finally acknowledged it in full.

“He must have had quite the learning curve to beat you at all,” Owlman remarked.

“Oh, he was _very_ eager to learn,” Superwoman drawled. “You know how he hates to be goaded. It was like waving a cape in front of a bull.”

The mental imagery that conjured was…comprehensive. Superwoman subtly belittling Ultraman; Ultraman taking offense, escalating, grabbing Superwoman by the arm or wrist — would she have allowed him, and him alone, to put a hand around her neck, if he earned it? — and slamming her up against the nearest wall; Superwoman laughing with the giddiness of adrenaline, challenging Ultraman openly on his pusillanimity, perhaps attacking him in turn, perhaps writhing in blatantly sexualised struggle to fluster him into action or vulnerability…

If Owlman “climaxed” to discussion of Superwoman’s activities with Ultraman — and with Superwoman convinced that this was getting him off, it seemed likely that they would continue on this subject indefinitely unless Owlman changed it himself — how would the implications of that act pan out for their relationship? Cuckoldry held no terror for him; to the contrary, the more time Superwoman spent on her other relationships, the less time Owlman had to devote to satiating her insatiable sexual appetite. If she believed that he derived personal gratification from those liaisons, all the more convenient. But if she thought that gratification extended to any sense of jealousy, to the humiliation of being sidelined for more preferred partners, matters could get out of hand quickly, though not irreparably. He had, at least, put enough emphasis on Superwoman as the focus of his fantasies that she wouldn’t likely mistake his feelings toward any of the other participants as anything other than incidental.

“Keep going,” Owlman said, hoarse and commanding and just on the edge of too-quick.

“Well,” said Superwoman with a purr of satisfaction, “I’d drive him into a rage, and he’d try to take it out on me; he’s strong, but he’s not _that_ strong, you know, and he’d moan like a virgin whenever I kissed him, especially when I used tongue. I usually won our little matchups. He was at least teachable enough — by the time I was done with him, he’d learned how to eat me out like a champ.”

“Did you have to teach him from first principles?”

“Gods, yes. You’d think he never got together with Flamebird in the first place. But at least he enjoyed it. He acts all dominant outside the bedroom, but take control of the situation and he turns into a needy little slut.”

Not exactly practicable knowledge, but useful. This raised questions about the nature of Ultraman and Flamebird’s relationship that hadn’t occurred to Owlman until now. He’d have to look into that further. The deprivation of being the last of his kind must wear on the Kryptonian. “A shame that Flamebird was so neglected. You must have been a breath of fresh air.”

“She was enthusiastic, I’ll give you that. Though I doubt she was ever with a woman before, either. You outclass them both.”

“Thank you.” Owlman had certainly put in the work. This was beginning to devolve into hearsay, however. He let out a harsh breath as he finished the sentence. “Almost there.”

“She’s a loud one.” Superwoman’s words took on an irregular staccato rhythm as she escalated to match. “Unashamed, at least eventually. And she knew what she wanted. She gave head like she was masturbating, like she’d been fantasising about this forever — long, hard strokes over my clit, always licking up between my lips and my G-spot, paying attention to my breasts and thighs and ass, worshiping me like a goddess. And she’d scream when I did the same to her.”

Owlman’s exhalation hissed out between his teeth. “Thank you,” he breathed. Even if he hadn’t already known Superwoman appreciated gratitude, this conversation would have been enough to prove it. “You are a goddess, you know,” he added in a more even tone.

A few violent breaths from Superwoman, followed by a toe-curling moan that gradually relaxed into quietude. “Flatterer.”

“I’m serious. No sane candidate would dare to challenge you over it.” Superwoman had sworn by Hera before, Artemis and Aphrodite, names more at home in an archaeological text than on modern tongues. Owlman had never so much as seen proof of them, much less the kind of display of power that could coerce human beings into frantic propitiation. The closest things in the modern world were the man and woman who could grant destruction and salvation on a whim, who could and would rain down fire and lightning if their flock failed to satisfy.

(Ironic, that being born to a genetic claim by Yahweh had produced an atheist when the god failed to hold up His end of the bargain.)

“Is that so?” asked Superwoman with the meticulous deliberation of a whetstone against a blade.

Owlman realised he had unintentionally damned her with faint praise. A sarcastic retort rose automatically to his lips; he stifled it with the ease of habit and said instead, “Do you know what it means to be a goddess in this day and age? When humanity was little more than primitive animals, it worshiped weather, natural disasters, any entity it thought could be convinced to show mercy, whether they existed or not. When people began to understand the world, to delineate the nature of an uncaring cosmos, their belief in the supernatural decreased proportionally. Then you appeared — something beyond science, beyond the staid strictures of a self-absorbed rationality, proof that all human achievement is _nothing_ in comparison to the power you wield. There is nothing on earth that can conquer you. You are the one and only thing I’ve ever bowed to.” Sincerely, anyway.

A languorous sigh. “Really?”

“I don’t say anything I don’t mean.” A technical truth. Anything he let slip, he had to be able to back up. Owlman had learned the importance of reliability through long experience in a career handling the unreliable. When the only leverage you held over others was their belief in the consequences of their actions, that belief had to carry the weight of immutable fact.

“How would you like to do it again?”

“When are you next free?” Owlman countered.

“For you? I can clear my schedule.”

Touching. “I have plans for this week, but if you don’t mind joining me for some routine legbreaking, I can key your biometric signature into the Aerie’s transporter.”

“Giving me the keys to the kingdom so soon? Someone’s confident.”

“If you’d rather fly to Gotham the long way, I don’t have to. And speaking of work, I do have to get back to mine,” Owlman added apologetically.

Superwoman stretched, taking her time about it. “So uptight. You need to take more breaks.”

“I’m sure you’ll make certain of it. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Certainly,” Superwoman replied, again with that wry, knowing undertone that made Owlman suspect he was being made the subject of a joke he wasn’t privy to. “Superwoman out.”

Silence fell once more. The shadow of a smirk passed across Owlman’s face and dissipated like fog as he contemplated the work in front of him. He’d have to do another pass over what he’d written in the past forty-five minutes or so to make sure his distraction hadn’t resulted in any glaring bugs. It might ultimately have been more efficient just to masturbate, at that. But there was the principle of the thing to consider.

And a faint, curling heat that had settled strangely in the pit of his stomach, dark and dissatisfied. Nothing quite so blatant as arousal, but a sense of _awareness,_ perhaps — a focus on his loins that was usually absent, prompted by the simulation he’d just expended so much cognitive load on, the sense that he could reach through the comm line and run his fingers along his lover’s skin, obey her commands and make her scream for him the way she had for herself. He might have to take care of that later, if it persisted.

For now, Owlman held the power of life and death in his hands.

And he saw that it was good.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Soundtrack:**  
>  • [Night on Bald Mountain](https://youtu.be/SLCuL-K39eQ) by Modest Mussorgsky  
> • [Love Love Love](https://youtube.com/watch?v=d81N0_zZhEA) by The Mountain Goats  
> • [Shut Up and Kiss Me](https://youtu.be/fw8jj8JXYjQ) by Orianthi  
> • [Hatefuck (Nightcore version)](https://youtu.be/COyVjLgZtLE) by The Bravery  
> • [Wreak Havoc](https://youtube.com/watch?v=K1dmR1nG9Ic) by Skylar Grey 
> 
> Given the decisions made in regard to her movie design, I see no reason not to make Superwoman Afro-Latina like her voice actress, so her name is not Anglicised in this world. (Had I my druthers, I'd do the same with Mary Marvel, since she and Superwoman are ostensibly the same person and DC canon is far too white.) I also see no reason for her not to have been an adult for many years at this stage in the world domination game.
> 
> I write Owlman as demisexual, feeling little to no sexual attraction without the prerequisite of a long-standing relationship; since he has no real gender preference in who he has sex with other than that they be emotionally attractive to him in some way, he identifies as bisexual. [Stirring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/46446/chapters/60638) from K_dAzrael’s Earth 3 series also features a beautifully-written asexual-spectrum Owlman. (Warning for an untagged mention of non-explicit underage sex.)
> 
> Based on DC’s canon that All Religions Are True and the JLA: Earth 2 canon that the major religious figures of that world are also morally inverted, the predominant Semitic religion on my mirror Earth (promoted as a state religion by Empress Helena of Rome in much the same way as Christianity in our world) is rooted in polytheistic worship of Ba’al, an epithet for the Canaanite death god [Mot](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mot_\(god\)). As in our world, this resulted in the ultimate decline and disfavor of the Greco-Roman pantheon. Lilith and Eve are conflated into a single figure revered for her independence and pursuit of the knowledge of good and evil, serving as the basis for a matriarchal and matrilineal society.
> 
> Judaism still exists, but the Abrahamic covenant is more of a Pascal’s Wager with a malevolent god who would otherwise doom his unfortunate apostates. The Vulcans of the mirror world would still be based on Judaism’s highly insular culture of study and rational debate, but as mirror Gene Roddenberry would be more inclined toward positive exotification than antisemitism, Vulcans wouldn’t embody antisemitic tropes such as being overwhelmed by violent, uncontrollable lust during their breeding periods. 
> 
> The comics’ decision to erase mirror Lois Lane by making her Superwoman’s unnecessary secret identity was always bullshit, and made even more so by an Amazonian Superwoman (who would have no reason to play along with the rules of Man’s World) or one empowered by ~~Shazam~~ Mazahs (who already has a different civilian identity she _also_ has no reason to live as). Rather than make someone as stroppy and strong-minded as Lois a spinoff of Ultraman by naming her Ultrawoman, I’ve decided to write her as taking on a moniker from [Kryptonian mythology](https://superman.fandom.com/wiki/Nightwing_and_Flamebird) that would already have cultural precedent in representing avatars of destruction. (I'll finish that WIP one of these days, if I have to fight God on Their throne to do it.)
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider taking a look at [my other stories set in the same universe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Days/works?fandom_id=934532).


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